Hockey Punks & Sk8r Boiz
by DorkQueen
Summary: The third time I meet Tristan Berkeley is in a remote skating camp in the middle of bumpkin Minnesota. Becca's words, not mine. –a humorous multi-chap with a bit of a twist, in Cassidy's POV-
1. The Elephant in the Rink

**Disclaimer: All rights to the Mother-Daughter Book Club series belong to Heather Vogel Frederick.**

**Author's Note: This is written for all the lovely people who wanted another Tristan/Cassidy fic. It ****is set after Wish You Were Eyre. Enjoy!**

* * *

I've played with all the girls in the locker room. I've felt their get-out-of-my-way-or-I-will-literally-hurt-you aura. Most of them are taller, bigger, and stronger than the average adult. And yet, right now, they all look like scared little girls.

"Coach Larson has gone crazy," Allegra says mournfully to glum nods.

Something the girls on the team say a lot is "There's nothing I won't do for hockey." And it's completely, 100% true. Hockey is our lives, our lives are hockey. It's, like, a self-evident truth.

So when Coach Larson says that all of the girls on the hockey team have to attend a figure skating camp for a week, I have to forcibly repeat my motto to myself. _Nothing_…_I won't do_…_for hockey_.

But _skating_ camp?!

"If you think about it, hockey and figure skating have a lot in common," Coach Larson said.

Nonononono. Hockey girls do not prance around in tutus.

"But why can't we go to a hockey camp?" I blurted. "There's this new one in New Hampshire headed by the US National Hockey Federation and it's supposed to be really good."

"Bull," Coach Larson said before I even finished my sentence. "All of you have been to the best hockey camps in the nation. There's nothing that New Hampshire hockey has to offer that you don't already have. What you girls need now is to hone your skills on the ice and your ability to complement the skills of the other girls on the team."

"So," she finished, "skating camp."

Eighteen girls gulped at the ominous two words.

When I tell the news to the Mother-Daughter Book Club, they have mixed reactions, mostly gearing toward negative. Emma and Jess are disappointed because we had originally talked about spending this year's winter break together, for a change, and now we won't be able to. Megan completely sympathizes—for the camp directors,because she knows how hard it is to get me to do something I don't want to, especially when it's something girly.

Becca feels sorry for me because I'll be staying in "bumpkin" Minnesota, where I won't have no wifi or cell phone service for a week. Oh, the _horror_.

(It was pretty funny to see her reaction when I first told her the camp doesn't allow electronics. Note for future prank: try to persuade Mrs. Chadwick to send Becca to a camp in Minnesota—a _hockey_ camp, ha. Becca would probably literally faint.)

The moms aren't very happy about the news either. Mrs. Hawthorne and Mrs. Delaney are concerned because I recently twisted my ankle and I'm not really supposed to do intensive exercise (not that I ever obey doctor's orders). Mrs. Wong is concerned about "the environmental impact of situating a commercial business at the heart of Minnesotan wilderness"—_so _typically Wong.

Even my stepfather, who is usually Mr. Optimistic, is grumbling, since the camp is pretty expensive (as in three zeroes expensive). I had a moment of beautiful, pure hope where I thought he would refuse to let me go.

But that hope soon died away, because well, want to know who _isn't_ unhappy about the whole camp thing? _My mom._

My mom is absolutely thrilled about the camp, it's ridiculous. She _shouldn't _be, considering that she's always complaining about how much money driving me to hockey practices and tournaments cost.

Reason number four thousand twenty-three why my mother confuses me: she complains about stuff like the cost of driving me a few miles, but she jumps at the chance to waste thousands of dollars on a stupid camp in the middle of freaking Minnesota.

Also, aren't mothers supposed to get sad when their children leave them for an extended period of time? Something relating to a motherly instinct.

Whatever it is, my mom sure doesn't have it. She's perfectly happy to send her youngest daughter thousands of miles away for an opportunity to develop the non-existent "inner womanliness" that she is determined to find.

Cue my sigh of exasperation.

* * *

If it was just camp without the figure skating bit, I wouldn't mind so much. The area is pretty nice. Tall trees surrounding a glinting lake, a baby blue sky untouched by air pollution, and fresh air that I breathe deep into my lungs. 'Bumpskin' Minnesota brings back the times my dad and I used to go camping.

We drag our stuff to the log cabin standing off to the side. The fierce winter wind dies away as we enter the cabin, which is warmed by a huge fireplace.

A red-haired woman smiles at us. She looks like a therapist—nice-looking and overly cheerful on the outside, but pushy on the inside.

"Hi! Are you the Lady Shawmuts? From Concord, Massachusetts?"

We nod.

"Great, you're the last to arrive!" She makes it sound as if being late was a good thing. I wonder if she ends all her non-question sentences in exclamation points. "I'm Ellie Gresshl, the camp director! Welcome to Adams Camp for Talented Adolescents on Ice!"

There is a pause, as if she expects us to cheer. Allegra mimes barfing and I have to choke back a laugh. Oh my god. _Talented adolescents on ice?_ What goofball named this camp?

"Well. You can put your luggage right over there—" Ellie points to a corner already filled with suitcases and bags—"and then come with me! You're just in time for the bonding session!"

This time, when Allegra and I look at each other, we both mime spewing out the world's most disgusting fake vomit.

Ellie takes us to a large room where kids are lounging around.

"Boys," Denise says slowly, as if they were the world's most fascinating and exotic specimen. Which I guess they kind of are. "Boys do figure skating?"

"Hey, no discrimination allowed here, ladies."

I know that voice. I know that posh British accent, that arrogant tone.

My eyes find familiar dark blue. An even more familiar smirk.

"Hey, Cass."

My eyes narrow even as my stomach flutters. "Should've known I'd find you here, ice princess."

Instead of getting angry, Tristan's smirk simply widens. He glances at the guys sitting next to him as if to say _see what I mean?_

I'm completely ready to grab him by the neck and ask him what lies he has been spreading about me, when Ellie's annoyingly chirpy voice appears next to my shoulder.

"Oh, this is wonderful! You two are already bonding!"

"Actually, I had the pleasure of meeting Cassidy once before," Tristan says pleasantly. I glare, mostly from confusion. What is he playing at? Is this the same boy who told me I had body odor issues during our first meeting?

"Oh, then you simply must be partners for the competition!"

"Of course," Tristan agrees.

_Partners? _"Wait, wait," I interrupt. "Sorry to rain on this parade, but I don't remember agreeing to this partnership."

Ellie and Tristan exchange a look, like _isn't-she-cute_.

"Oh, you didn't think you'd be skating alone, sweetheart, did you? After all, this _is _pair skating camp."

My mouth falls open. Time freezes. An elephant falls through the ceiling and crushes both Ellie and Tristan.

(Well, maybe the last one didn't happen.)

I see a pale Allegra mouthing "pair skating camp."

"Can I go back to the car? I don't think I feel so well," Denise says weakly.

I am going to _kill _Coach.


	2. Day 1: Stinkerbelle and Killer Blades

******Author's Note: **Dedicated to a certain cheerio reading this. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. (I c u lurking…) MERRY CHRISTMAS.

**I know that Tristan is a little different in this chapter than in the previous one, but THAT'S ON PURPOSE. Don't worry, it'll be explained in the third chapter. Or, erm, maybe the fourth. :P**

* * *

See, the thing about being the captain of any team is that you have to put the team before yourself. If the team wants to do something you don't really want, you have to go along with it. If the team is mopey and desperately needs cheering up, well, the role falls to you. Even if you're in not a particularly great mood yourself.

"Guys, we've been through stuff a lot tougher than this," I say firmly. Eighteen sad, hungry faces look at me, look down at the little sandwiches we're being fed, then back up.

"Remember that game against the Orange Banshees where there were ridiculous fouls and the referee refused to card them? Remember the time Louisa broke her leg right before nationals?"

"I'd trade a broken leg for this," Louisa says glumly.

"The point is," Allegra takes over, her voice loud and clear, "we got through it. We proved that we're strong, stubborn girls, that we're unstoppable together as a team. We can't let a lame little skating camp get us down."

"Pair skating," someone mumbles, and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees.

"At any rate, it's only for a week," I remind them, but it's a small consolation. Allegra and I share a look. We tried our best.

Just like at Alcott High, the camp's cafeteria is divided into different groups, based on schools. Sitting near us are kids wearing matching red Westfield High tracksuits. From what I learned at the failed bond session yesterday, there are four main school groups here: Westfield High, St. George's Academy, the Greenwich School, and the Lady Shawmuts.

Which isn't a school, but you know what I mean. Besides, we're probably closer than all the schools combined.

My eyes flicker to the back right-hand corner and stop at a particular dark-haired head. He's huddled next to the other boys, talking and _smiling. _One of the Greenwich School girls—green eyes, perfect white teeth—says something to Tristan, and he roars with laughter.

I don't know why I'm surprised that Tristan has friends (wow, that sounded really mean). He has a decent sense of humor and a snarky streak, from what I found out a year and a half ago. He's also pretty good-looking with that sharp jawline and dark gray blue eyes…needless to say, he has girl friends. Erm, friends that are girls.

(Cue facepalm. _Get yourself together, Sloane. No need to waste your breath over stupid boys._)

I guess I just assumed Tristan was, well, kind of a loner. Like me.

I take another glance at the other kids in Greenwich sweatshirts and frown as I realize something. Greenwich School is co-ed…and a certain cousin of Tristan's also does figure skating, which means…

I groan just as a shadow falls on my empty plate. (It's as dramatic in real life as in movies.)

"Well, well. Who do we have here."

"Stinkerbelle!" I mimic her high voice and her fake smile. "Missed you at the bonding this morning…wait, no, what am I saying."

Around me, the Lady Shawmut girls sit up straighter and scoot closer to me. I feel a surge of warmth for them. Not everyone takes hockey girls seriously, and we've all had our share of bullies.

Annabelle narrows her eyes at me. "I was feeling a little sick, not that you'd care."

I almost feel a little bad, until she starts talking again.

"And then, just when I feel like I have enough strength to drag myself out of bed, I hear the most ridiculous thing."

It's clear she wants me to ask her what she heard. So I don't.

There is an awkward pause.

"Apparently," Annabelle hisses, "my cousin has chosen you to be his partner."

I stare straight back at her. "So?"

"So? Is it true?"

"Why don't you ask your cousin yourself, if you two are so close?"

Immediately, I know I've struck a nerve. Annabelle stiffens. I realize just then why the situation feels so different. Unlike the last time we had a facedown, Annabelle's wannabees aren't here.

Like they say, strength is in numbers. Without her followers, Annabelle seems much more…alone.

After a moment, Annabelle stalks away. Allegra swings an arm around my shoulders. "God, what a cow. Good job putting her down, Cassidy."

I smile weakly. It's an easy one point win for Cassidy…so why don't I feel triumphant?

* * *

In the afternoon, we meet the other coaches. They're pretty much the same build as any other sports coaches: burly, blunt, and strict.

"Now, we tried to take your preferences in consideration when we assigned the pairs, but you should remember that one of the purposes of this camp is to help you make new friends!" Coach Messon sounds doubtful. I have a sneaking suspicion Ellie wrote his speech. "Now, here's the final list…"

Everyone is quiet as they listen for their names. I catch Tristan's eye and he nods at me.

I don't know whether to be relieved or upset that we're together.

On one hand, I could've gotten stuck with someone I _really _didn't like. On the other hand, working a stranger would probably be much easier than working with someone I already have a complicated history with.

It's not that I don't like Tristan. After some, um, initial misunderstandings, we worked pretty well together for a skating competition—in fact, if you go as far as to listen to my mother, we complemented each other. And if I'm being completely honest, there was a point when I thought I had a crush on the British boy.

But a year and a half is a long time. Now, I don't know where we stand.

As Tristan comes over by me, I resist the urge to ask if he has gotten a girlfriend from the last time I saw him.

Instead, I mutter, "Why is it that out of all the skating camps in the world, we choose the same one?"

The flirty boy from the morning would nudge my shoulder and quip something about fate. I'm thankful (and maybe a little disappointed) when Tristan simply shrugs and says that Adams is a pretty prestigious skating camp.

"Don't you play hockey, though?" he says curiously.

I roll my eyes. "It took you this long to realize, huh?"

And then I explain.

By the time I finish, his eyebrows have practically reached his hairline. "I wonder how your coach got you into Adams though…"

My nostrils flare, along with my sense of injustice. "Excuse me?"

"Like I said, Adams is pretty prestigious. You can't just apply and expect to get in."

I jab a finger in Tristan's chest. "Tristan Berkeley, are you insulting the skills of the Lady Shawmuts?"

He blinks. "No, I'm just pointing out—you know what, I'm not even going to finish that sentence because you're going to take it as an insult no matter what I say."

I sputter. He smiles.

"It really is good to see you, Cassidy."

* * *

The drills we do are similar to the ones Mrs. Bergson had made us do. Thinking about Mrs. Bergson makes a lump appear in my throat, but I focus my attention on getting my footwork right.

"You've kept in shape," Tristan notes at one point.

I frown. I'm definitely rustier than the last time we skated together, and from the way Tristan had to duck when my blade came up too close to his head, he knows it too.

"You could definitely use work in the elegance and style department," he says hastily. "But in general, your body's in pristine condition."

His tone is matter-of-fact, probably the same it would be if he was diagnosing me for a disease.

My face is in the process of deciding whether or not to blush, when Tristan flashes me a mischievous smile. "I can tell by the extra ten pounds of muscle I have to lift up."

I smack his shoulder.

Besides that, we don't talk much, just keep on working on the drills. By the time Ellie skates over, we're both panting and covered in sweat, but we've managed to do all of the drills perfectly.

"Good work, you two!" she says, smiling widely as always. "You've worked with each other before, huh?"

"How can you tell?" I ask.

"Usually, no one is comfortable enough to attempt the handlift the first day" is the cheeky reply. I feel my cheeks heat up. Tristan's arm around my waist, which was previously for the sake of being professional, now feels uncomfortably intimate. Tristan seems to feel the same way, as his warmth disappears and his arm falls back to his side.

Or maybe he was just disgusted by the sweat damping the edge of my shirt.

"Don't tell anyone," Ellie says, oblivious to the awkwardness that had just sprung up, "but I think so far, you two are in the best shape."

"Ace," Tristan chirps. And I mean _chirps._ I narrow my eyes at him.

As she skates away, I mutter to Tristan, "I don't know what you were saying earlier, but if _we're _in the best shape, this place is a joke."

Red hair stops and turns around. Tristan shoots me a glare.

"Don't downplay your own skating ability, Cassidy," Ellie says. Even though her words are light, there is now an undertone that makes me gulp. This woman is definitely no pushover.

Ellie raises her voice so that the whole camp can hear. "I'm glad you didn't think today was hard, because this was just a little assessment of how your skills compare to your partner's. Get some rest, people, because tomorrow we start the serious stuff!"


	3. Day 2: A Conversation in Five

"Hey, he doesn't look so bad."

A cough. "Yeah, he's pretty fast."

Awkward silence. Allegra and I avoid each other's eyes. We're really good friends, but we've never talked about boys before. Half the girls on the Lady Shawmut are too busy for relationships, the other half doesn't know what a relationship is.

Just then, the boy in question moves and we both lean forward, knocking into each other in the process.

I make a sound like "oomphf!" Allegra groans.

"My god, Cass, what have you been eating? My head feels like it just crashed into a rock!"

"Hey!"

"Shh, he's coming here!"

A boy with wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and a Westfield tracksuit stops by our table. Allegra makes a sound most _not_ Allegra-like.

"Hey," the boy grunts.

"Hey," we both answer, even though I'm pretty sure he was speaking more to Allegra than me.

"Ready for core?"

Allegra pales at the mention of core training. Hundreds of consecutive push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, and other kinds of fun torture, if Adams is the same as any other sports camp in the country. I would feel bad for Allegra, except I have to run _five freaking miles _this morning _on an empty stomach._

(Yes, empty. The pathetic things Adams calls pancakes doesn't count as real food.)

I think Ellie purposely put me in the running group to get back at me for yesterday. That woman might be more passive aggressive than my mom.

"Um, I'll see you later, Allegra," I say.

Allegra shoots me a look like _you can't just leave me alone with this boy! We need supervision! _"See you in dance."

I cringe at the reminder. Yesterday, Ellie ran through the schedule for the week. For the next three days, we'll have either core or running in the morning, dance or gymnastics in the afternoon, and the rink in the evening.

I know, blech. But at least Allegra and I were put in the same dance group, so we'll be able to suffer through the horrors of ballet together.

I find Tristan already outside, talking to a young blond-haired woman. His smile flashes every few seconds.

I try not to feel too jealous. I can count on one hand how many times Tristan smiled throughout the nine month period he spent in Concord.

"Cassidy!" The blonde waves at me. Coach Pigskin, I think. Or maybe Picksin. Nah, I think it's Pigskin. "Are you excited?"

_For running five freaking miles in the freaking winter? _"No."

"What's that?"

"Um, sure!"

Tristan's lips twitch suspiciously.

As more kids gather around, Coach blows her whistle. With her Golden Golpher baseball cap and blue-and-white sports jacket, I can almost imagine her as a sports mom.

"Hey everybody! I hope you're as excited as I am for the first run of the week!" A very preppy sports mom.

She gives the usual instructions: Follow the trail, remember to stay hydrated, try to keep the same pace, blah, blah, blah.

"Now, it's perfectly fine if you don't run five in one straight go, but I want you to push yourselves! Get comfortable with the uncomfortable!"

Yep, same cheesy prep talk.

Tristan nudges my shoulder while we're stretching. "Think you can make it to the finish without stopping?"

"Of course," I reply without any hesitation. My mother always said that competitiveness brings out the worst in me. "You?"

"Five miles is a titch compared to the marathons I run."

We stare at each other. Tristan is the first to break it, and smiles.

"Race you?"

I bend over to touch my toes for the tenth time. "You don't stand a chance, ice princess."

Five miles is suddenly looking up to be a lot more fun than it was ten minutes ago.

* * *

"So," I say, breaking the silence after the first mile or so. "What's up with the Dr. Jekyll slash Mr. Hyde personality?"

Tristan glances at me, his breath disappearing in cloudy puffs. "You've read that book?"

I give him a hard look. "I could be a book nerd, you know. Just because the stereotype is that jocks don't read doesn't mean it's actually true, just like it's not true that girls aren't as good at sports as boys."

Tristan suddenly looks like he wants to backtrack on the conversation.

"Just kidding, we had to read it for English last year. What, you thought I'd actually read a boring old book because I wanted to? My mother wishes." I nudge him. "Just like how you wish I fell for that change of subject. Why do you act so weird one moment and normal the next?"

"I do not act weird."

"Um, yeah, you do. While you were talking to Coach, you smiled a lot more and actually acted like a happy human being—oh, don't give me that look! And then right after she's gone, boom! It's back to grumpy Tristan Jerkeley."

It might have been a trick of the light, but I think I saw a smile flicker across his face. "So you were watching me?"

"Oh, please." I snort at his lame attempt to embarrass me. "You're as subtle as an elephant."

Tristan sighs. "Look, I have to get on Ellie's good side, alright? The last time I was at Adam's was a few years ago, and I didn't exactly give the best impression."

"What happened?"

"I, er, might have said some, uh, not-so-nice things about her. To her face."

This story is starting to sound familiar. Tristan has the decency to look ashamed.

"Like what?"

"Look, it was right after Annabelle and I lost the competition, and sometimes things just slip out of my mouth when I'm upset, you know?"

"Yeah, I know from first-hand experience."

Tristan cringes. "Well."

"I'm not mad at you," I say after a pause. "Well, not anymore. I think."

"Really?" His voice is teasing. "Not even after the, oh, half dozen sexist things I've said in the past twenty four hours?"

"Don't push your luck, Berkeley," I huff, but I can't hide my smile and neither can Tristan.

* * *

Two miles, and I'm a little disturbed by how loud my breathing sounds. Combined with Tristan's, I can see why Mrs. Wong was worried about animals being scared away. I feel my lips tug up.

"What?"

"What, what?" I grin at Tristan and he rolls his eyes back at me.

"Real mature, Cassidy. We are _not _going down that path."

"Aw. I always win, you know."

"Probably because you're the most stubborn person I've ever met _and _the most immature."

"Thanks, I try. What was your question?"

Tristan frowns at me. "I forget. Hang on, why were you smiling before?"

"Um, because smiling is a thing normal human beings do, and I'm a normal human being?"

"I know there's an insult for me hidden somewhere in there."

"Real perceptive of you, Berk."

For a moment, Tristan is distracted from frowning. "Berk? That's your nickname for me now?"

"Berkeley was too long."

Tristan stares too long at me. "Do you know what berk means?"

"Um, yeah, who doesn't," I lie, making a mental note to search it up at the soonest chance I had. Then I remember that electronics are banned from the camp. Dear god, am I actually going to have to pick up a dictionary?

Tristan is still giving me that _Americans-are-weird _side glance.

I change the subject. "So how have you been since, um, the last time I saw you?"

_The "last time" being when I kind of screwed up your second cousin's cousin's grandfather's wedding, we ice danced in an abandoned rink, and then you left a few days later with just a "See you, Cassidy."_

"I've been busy. Winning ice skating competitions." Oh, ho ho."What about you?"

"I've been busy," I imitate his lofty tone. "Winning hockey nationals."

The corners of his lips go up reluctantly. "And your friends? Emma, Megan, and…and that blond girl. Jess?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Hey, you actually remember. I'm impressed."

He snorts. "Hard to forget the girls who made fun of my Spandex, brought my infamously proud cousin down to her knees, and thought it was a good idea to give out tofu cupcakes as wedding favors."

"That was completely Mrs. Wong's idea!" I protest to the last one and cringe at the memory. Megan was inconsolable for _weeks_.

Tristan's lips twitch again. A split second later, we're both laughing and then wheezing for air.

"Stop. It," I order, struggling to catch my breath and keep running and talk all at the same time. "This. Is. So. Not. Helping."

"You were the one who started the conversation. The first time," he amend, after seeing my doubtful look.

"Well, it ends now," I say firmly. "Agreed?"

"Agreed," Tristan says solemnly. When our eyes meet, we both have to turn away to keep from bursting into laughter again.

* * *

Two point five miles, and my face feels like it's about to fall off.

"Why are you blushing?"

I send my most ferocious glare at the perplexed British boy. "Shut up, I'm not blushing. And I thought we agreed not to talk."

"Your face is flaming red," he marvels, ignoring the last part.

"Because it's forty freaking degrees in the freaking Fahrenheit, you idiot! Haven't you heard of sensitive skin?"

There's a snort. "You? Sensitive skin?"

"Shut. Up."

He does. For about a second.

"I can hear you panting, you know. Scaring all the birds away." There's a glint in Tristan's eyes as if he's purposely trying to rile me up—if he is, it's working. "Getting tired?"

"No," I grit through my teeth, and summon all my remaining strength to move faster.

Tristan catches up—too easily—and starts to step up his pace too. We run the next few miles at a brisk pace, each goading the other to run faster. By the last mile, we're both sprinting.

_Can't…let…him…win. _My legs feel like lead, but the sight of the rock we started from gives me motivation. I swing my arms faster, hoping to gain speed.

Or maybe elbow Tristan in the stomach. That would be nice too.

Our shoulders are literally touching. I've been trying to break ahead for the past hundred feet, but every time I manage to get an inch of a lead, Tristan closes the gap within seconds. On the bright side, he can't seem to break ahead either.

Coach Pigskin beams at us as we lunge past the rock. "Congrats, you two are the first back!"

I finally let my legs give way and groan. "Tell me I beat him."

_He_ towers over me with that practiced condescending look, as if trying to emphasize to Coach that one of us has just collapsed on the dirt ground in an undignified manner and it _certainly_ wasn't him.

I do my best to ignore him and look over at Coach.

"Well, it was really close," she says, biting her lip. I swear, if she calls it a tie, I'll—I'll do something extreme.

"But Cassidy finished just a fraction of a second earlier. Point two nine seconds exactly, according to my watch—oh!"

She seems flabbergasted when I throw my arms around her. I guess I don't exactly seem like the hugging type.

Over her shoulder, I mouth "sucker" to Tristan, who looks like he has just tripped over his own skates, cracked his head on the ice, and doesn't know how to get back up.


	4. Day 3: Triple Surprises

_Dear Mother Daughter Book Club_,

It is Day Three of Torture Camp—which, I guess, isn't actually that bad.

For the first four days, we have either core or running in the morning, dance in the afternoon, and the rink in the evening. On the fifth and sixth days, we'll be in the rink the entire time, perfecting our routines. And the seventh day is the day of the competition, which you guys should totally come to because I'm going to win.

(Haha, just kidding. These people are really good. D: Then again, they _have_ been doing this since they were like five years old, so I don't think pitting me against them is a fair comparison.)

The biggest surprise so far is dance class. It didn't suck!

We did some gymnastics stuff first, which was fun. Do you know I used to take gymnastics when I was little? I got kicked out after I broke the rules by sneaking over to the big kids' vaulting horse and tried to copy their handspringing, somersaulting awesomeness.

That catastrophe ended with a broken leg, a lot of hysterical yelling, and me being grounded for four months.

(Do you remember, Mom? Four freaking dull months of no sports. Still, I guess I shouldn't complain, since you were perfectly willing to ground me for a lifetime.)

After gymnastics, we did some ballet—boring, but not too bad.

Anyway, guess who my partner is for the pair skating stuff.

Guess.

Guess.

Okay, you guys probably aren't even guessing, so I'll just tell you: Tristan Berkeley.

Yep, what a coincidence, huh?

He's nicer than before, I think. Not as arrogant. Of course, it helps that I beat him in running yesterday. He's been a good sport about it, but I think he's still sulking on the inside, haha.

By the way, you know what I just realized? Maybe Coach Larson didn't tell us that this was pair skating camp, but she couldn't get away with not telling the parents…which means YOU WERE IN ON IT, MOM, and you just decided not to tell me, hmm? Gosh, what happened to 'having no secrets in the family'? Being 'open and communicative' with each other? The minute I get back, I'm going straight to Dr. Weisman.

(Oh, and don't think I'm forgetting about you, Stanley. If Mom knew, you knew. Forget about all those Red Sox bonding moments—this is an act of BETRAYAL. }:| )

_See you all soon,_

_Cassidy_

* * *

There are two things that I didn't include in my letter.

The first is that ballet wasn't just "not bad." I actually liked it. Like, like _liked _it.

At first, I was horrified we had to wear actual tutus, but it turns out I'm pretty good at ballet because I'm really flexible. In fact, the instructor said I was a natural.

The reason why I didn't tell this to the Mother Daughter Book Club is because they would make a big deal over it. And also because it would somehow find my way to my mother, who would proceed to sign me up for a ten-week ballet class and buy me sparkly, lacy tutus in every disgusting hue of pink there is.

Ergh. Just because I like ballet doesn't mean I want to do it for the rest of my life.

The other thing that I didn't include is that there's something going on with the other people at this camp.

Remember when I said that Tristan has a two-sided personality? That describes about everyone except the Lady Shawmuts. Whenever they get within a ten-feet radius of the coaches, they just seem to brighten up and become annoying mini-versions of Ellie. It's like the coaches have some magical happy fairy dust or something.

Like, during dance yesterday, there were so many people pushing to be in the front line. One girl literally shoved this other girl—who was from the _same school_—to the floor. Allegra and I were just like, really? The back is where the cool kids are.

That incident bothered me for the rest of the day. There's a lot of bad mojo in this camp, and I have a feeling in my gut that something's going to blow up soon.

* * *

It happens during lunch.

See, even during lunch, there's a feeling of tension in the air. The first few days, I was too busy moaning about how much the camp sucked, but now I notice that the cafeteria is always so much quieter than normal smelly cafeterias filled with jocks. The people at the Westfield and St. George tables are like anti-social or something. They never laugh, and barely talk to each other.

At first, I thought they were just so tired from all the exercise that they couldn't even talk. But it's the third day and they're still sitting so stiffly, and they can't be that out of shape, right?

Weird. Actually, it's more than just weird—it's unsettling.

We Lady Shawmuts make up about half of the total noise. The other half comes from the Greenwich kids, who seem to be pretty close.

Which is why it's so surprising that the catfight during lunch is between two girls from Greenwich.

One minute, we're all eating and talking. The next minute, there's a bunch of shrieks from the back table and two girls are on each other's backs, pulling each other's hair, clawing at each other's faces.

I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the words "rich father" kept on being thrown around.

It ends as quickly as it starts. The burly coach on lunch duty easily separates the two hysterical girls and they're escorted out of the room before any of us can say, "What just happened?"

* * *

"It's complicated," Tristan says.

"So un-complicate it," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. We're in the rink, and all of the skaters are waiting on line to show the coaches their jumps for critique. We can choose either to do the single, double, or triple, but whatever we choose now is what we'll be expected to do in the competition as well.

"Look, it doesn't matter. It doesn't involve you."

"Actually, I think it does," I say. "I think I'd like to know why everyone in this camp looks like they're about to attack each other any moment. Also why you keep ignoring your cousin."

I give a pointed look at the blond-haired girl a few feet ahead of us, who keeps on glancing back at us. Well, glancing at Tristan and glaring at me.

Tristan doesn't look. "Did Annabelle speak to you?"

"Yeah, the day before yesterday. She asked me if it was true you chose me to be your partner." I pause and realize something. "Which technically isn't true, since the pairings were random."

The pause that follows is too long.

"The pairings were random, right?"

"They're supposed to be," Tristan says quietly. "But the Greenwich School doesn't like random."

"What does that mean?"

"It means it's not difficult for rich kids to fork over a little extra money to underpaid camp counselors."

It takes me a while to understand, and my mouth falls open. "You mean, they bribe them to change the pairings? But, why?"

"Because this is pair skating," Tristan says slowly as if it should be obvious. "Because the skill of your partner determines your own."

I'm still half-convinced Tristan is just kidding. His serious expression tells me he's not. "But—but this is just a camp right? Why do they want to win so much?"

Tristan gives me a look. "Why do you like winning hockey competitions, Cassidy?"

"That's not the same thing."

"Really? Tell me why not."

"I would never bribe people or attacking my own friends to win."

"That's because you play hockey."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" I demand.

"There are no friends in figure skating," he says. "For every competition, you have to present yourself to the judges in a way that makes you look better than your competitors. Everyone is constantly competing. Even your partner for one competition can become your opponent in the next."

"But it's just a _competition_," I protest. "It's just a sport. A game."

"It's not just a game," Tristan says quietly. "Cassidy, have you thought about playing professional hockey later on?'

"Of course."

"Less than one percent of kids who play sports make it professional. If you want to make your sport your career, you have to prove yourself every chance you're given. Everyone knows that. That's why everyone is trying so hard to win this competition at Adams."

"So that it can be another thing they list on their resume," I say flatly.

"Exactly."

I don't say anything more and neither does Tristan. Seemingly at the same time, we surface from our depressing conversation and realize that there are only two people before it is Tristan's turn, and then mine.

Tristan says all of a sudden, "Do the double."

I blink. "The double."

"You want to showcase your best to the coaches, remember?" With that, he faces frontward.

I watch as Tristan steps forward and executes a perfect triple jump. There is a burning feeling in my chest. My mind is still swirling from the conversation we just had and also from Tristan's words.

_You want to showcase your best to the coaches. _I don't know what makes me more angry: that Tristan is implying the double jump is the limit to my ability, or that he's just like the rest of his Greenwich classmates in that he's trying to woo the coaches.

Gosh, that's just so messed up.

What Tristan should've remembered is that I set my own limits. And usually, for the better or worse, I like to think the limit is the sky.

"Ready?" Coach Linden calls from the side.

I give her a smile, tighten my ponytail, and bring my chin up. I can feel Tristan's eyes on me, but I ignore him. As my skates glide across the ice, my mind frantically tries to remember what they had told us yesterday about triples.

And then I go airborne and it's just a matter of whether I can win against gravity as I twist my body—_one, two_, I count, and then I can see the ice coming to reclaim my feet but _I need to make that third spin_—

There's a second of satisfaction when I manage to land on my feet. And then I promptly fall over.

I grit my teeth when I hear the muffled snickers. Coach Linden skates over and helps me up.

"Are you okay?"

I nod. "Other than a sore butt, I'll be fine."

Coach's friendly brown eyes meet mine. "Cassidy, right? You're one of the hockey players?"

"Yup, that's me."

"Is this the first time you've done a triple jump?"

I smile sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Well, that was very impressive for a first attempt," she says. "It wasn't quite a triple jump because you missed a half of a revolution, so we'd label it as a downgraded jump…plus the judges would have to take points off for the fall at the end…but keep working on it, and I think you could definitely do a triple for the competition."

I smile back at her. My eyes then flicker to where a tall, dark-haired boy is standing a few feet away, and my smile fades. His lips are pressed tightly together and there is a familiar stormy look in his blue-gray eyes.

* * *

**Author's note: Wow, this got depressing really quickly. xD N****ext chapter is filled with loads of DRAMA…**


	5. Day 4: A Crack in the Ice

Tristan speaks barely five words to me after the triple jump incident. It's hard not to feel hurt. Why is it always one steps forward and two steps back with this boy? I try to talk to him, but Tristan, like my mom, is the passive-aggressive type. He doesn't want to say why he's mad—no, _instead_, he expects me to figure it out and then gets even _madder_ at me when I don't. Like it's _my _fault.

Apparently, anger is a virus around here, because at breakfast the next day, there's another fight.

At the time, Allegra was telling me about her partner—apparently his name is Russell and he's from Virginia…and that's all I can remember because I wasn't really paying attention. I think Allegra was complaining about how much he brags about winning ice skating competitions. (I know, why would anyone brag about such lame achievements?)

Then her voice trails off and I'm opening my mouth to confess that I haven't been listening, but I don't get a chance. The Greenwich School, yet again, steals the attention of the entire lunch room. This time, Tristan is standing up, facing against a blond-haired girl—who, when she turns, I recognize as _Annabelle_.

"I've already apologized, alright?"

"And I know how hard that must have been for you. I appreciate the effort."

"Stop it! Stop being like that!"

"I do not—"

"For god's sake, Tris, what else do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. It's done."

Tristan's frosty tone makes me cringe on the inside. I would have felt pity for Annabelle if I wasn't sure that the whole fight was her own fault.

"Tris," the sneaky girl pleads. As Tristan turns away, the queen of trouble makes one final comeback, "No matter how much sucking up you do, you're never going to win with _her _by your side!"

There is an _I'm not exactly sure what she means by that but oh my god someone just got DISSED_ silence. The Greenwich kids sit up straighter, many of them sporting the same predatory, gleeful smiles that I see my teammates wear after we crush an opposing team. Tristan slowly turns around, his expression thunderous.

Annabelle either doesn't notice or doesn't care. "Every day, it's simply revolting to watch you sucking up to the coaches—"

"Teapot calling the kettle black," Tristan retorts coldly.

"—even flirting with that Cassidy Sloane—" –I stiffen at the mention of my name— "as if that will help you win! She's got the grace of a dog, isn't that what you said once? And she can't even do a triple without falling straight on her arse!"

I stand up. "Now wait a minute there, _Stinkerbelle_—"

"Sit down, Cassidy, this isn't your fight." Tristan's mouth is set in a grim line.

I narrow my eyes. "I get to decide what is and isn't my fight. And when someone insults me, I don't just take it standing down."

Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to hear, as Annabelle continues to shriek, "You're too stubborn to admit that you made a terrible choice in making her your partner—yes, _make _because even though the partners were supposed to be random, you decided to bend the rules to your fancy—"

"You dare accuse _me _of bending the rules?" Tristan breaks in. His voice is low and dangerous when he says, "You don't want to pick that fight, Annabelle."

Apparently, Tristan has some solid blackmail material on Annabelle because she snaps her hefty mouth shut and opens it and shuts it again. The whole room holds its breath.

Naturally, Annabelle's mouth can't resist the temptation. However, this time, when she speaks, her words are purposely soft and wheedling. "Face it, Tris, the only way you're going to win is with me. We've always skated together, Tristan. _Always_."

Tristan looks unmoved. "Well, maybe it's time for a change."

"Give it a rest, Annabelle," a boy sitting near the two calls. "Obviously, Berkeley isn't going to budge and the rest of us would like to eat our breakfast in peace, yeah?"

Annabelle narrows her eyes. "Morgan Angus Jones, you're enjoying this, aren't you? You don't want Tristan and I together because it means less competition for you, you selfish prat!"

Her voice rises up at the end to an unbearably high pitch and she looks ready to throttle her classmate.

"Okay, guy, break it up." The coach on lunch duty looks eager to prevent a repeat of the catfight yesterday. After a tense moment, Tristan and Annabelle sit down—at the opposite ends of a table bench, both still glaring daggers at the other.

"I hate this camp," Allegra says, glaring down at her orange. Whether she's referring to the crabby Greenwich kids, repulsive Russell Birmingham, or simply her puny breakfast, I agree wholeheartedly.

* * *

Tristan isn't there at the core session. This makes me wonder about what might've happened to get him to skip—I still hadn't ruled kidnapping out of the question—but he's there at the rink session.

Here's the transcript of our highly illuminating conversation:

Me: Why weren't you there at core?

Him:

Me: Why were you and Annabelle fighting?

Him:

Me: Why are you so silent?

Him:

Me: Are you mad about yesterday?

At this point, Tristan's lips are pressed tightly together and his eyes are so firmly on the coaches' demonstration that it is as if he had never seen people ice skate before.

As we move onto working on our own routines, I keep pestering him with variations of the same questions as before. He finally lashes out—in typical Tristan fashion. That is to say, without answering any of my questions.

"For the third and hopefully last time, your right foot has to be crossed over your left foot," he hisses, glaring down at my feet.

"Technically," I drawl to make him even more annoyed, "from the perspective of the audience, my right foot would be crossed over my left foot."

The glare has now found a new target: my face. "Try to take something seriously, Cassidy, for the first time in your life."

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," I mutter in response.

"If this occurs during the competition, the judges will deduct points." He frowns. "And by the way, when you go airborne during the jump, your fingers are supposed to be bunched together."

I throw my hand up in frustration. "Does it really matter?"

"The judges will deduct points," Tristan repeats sharply. "Plus, your fingers look like pigeon toes when they're spread out."

I narrow my eyes. "Pigeon toes."

He doesn't seem to notice my shifting mood. "Yes, it degrades the aesthetic value of the performance, which is a critical part of the judging criteria."

"Will you stop going on about the stupid judging criteria?" I snap.

"The _stupid_ judging criteria is what determines whether or not we win," Tristan says in the same clipped tone. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you did your little _performance_ yesterday."

"So you _are _still mad about that," I remark. "Well, you know what, I don't know how you usually treat your partners, but you don't have the right to make decisions on my behalf without even asking for my opinion."

Tristan mutters something under his breath. I only manage to catch the words "American" and "pig-headed" before he snaps back, "And if I'm trying to give you critique and guidance? Do you grant me the _right_ to do that?"

His mocking tone stirs something dark and unpleasant in me. "Guidance? I don't think calling my fingers 'pigeon toes' counts as guidance."

"I'm trying to help you!" Tristan roars. "Because we are partners, for god knows whatever reason, and if you botch up a triple jump, it reflects poorly on me as well! You know, maybe Annabelle was right."

I stiffen. I knew we would end up having this conversation, good or bad. Tristan saying Annabelle is _right _sounds as bad as anything. "About what?"

Naturally, he doesn't answer directly. "Don't make me regret defending you."

"I didn't ask you to," I snarl. "I could've defended myself."

He mumbles something under his breath.

This infuriates me more than anything. "Look, Berkeley, you obviously have something nasty going in your mouth, so just spit it out."

He raises his head. "You wanted to know why Annabelle and I were fighting this morning. It was because she had wanted me to partner up with her instead of you."

"By bribing the counselors." I feel the same disbelief and disgust from yesterday come trickling back.

"I refused, which set her in a rage. I chose you, Cassidy, because I thought that you had the complementary skills I needed in partner."

His eyes are cold when they look at me. "I was wrong. So far, you've only been stubborn and reckless. You treat this competition as a joke. What I was foolish not to realize is that you don't care about ice skating, you don't have that determination needed to win."

"Right now, you're just pulling me down."

For a second, I see red. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Your size-nine feet are _dragging us down_."

That's when I slap him across the face.

* * *

"I'm done," I declare. "I am _so_ done with Tristan Berkeley and his cousin and his mood swings. I'm done with all of it."

A sound of sympathy comes from the lower bunk bed. "What a jerk."

"This camp is full of them."

"Tell me about it." Allegra's voice is annoyed. "I don't know how I'm supposed to deal with Russell Birmingham for another four days. He just thinks he's the biggest thing ever."

"And the funny thing is that's what all of them think."

"Screw this camp."

"My sentiments exactly."

I can't stay here for another four days. I won't. The next morning, I'm going to phone my mom and get the heck out of here.

* * *

**Author's Note: Just want to thank everyone so far for reading. We're about halfway through! :o **

**All reviews are read and re-read, and critiques/suggestions are loved.**


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